


Selected Scenes from a Princess Bride AU

by MissSunFlower94



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Dawn is Buttercup, Gen, Marianne is Wesley, Roland is Humperdink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6587749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSunFlower94/pseuds/MissSunFlower94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's the name that's important, no one would be afraid of the Dread Pirate Marianne"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Selected Scenes from a Princess Bride AU

**Author's Note:**

> As the title suggests, this isn't so much a full AU as selected scenes that I have inspiration to write. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Are ye sure ye cannae speed things up?”

Marianne glared up at the distant figure that gazed down at her, several feet of rocky cliffside between them. This was never going to be an easy plan to begin with, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about any of her setbacks, and this was a rather major one. Her arms were starting to burn.

She closed her eyes, gathered her wits, and spoke from deep in her throat, managing the most masculine voice she could when she was out of breath. “Look, this isn’t as easy as it looks - and if you’re in such a hurry you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find something useful to do?”

“Ah could do that. I have rope up here, but Ah don’t think ye’ll want my help, since I’m only waiting around here to kill ye.”

Marianne blinked. “That does put a damper on our relationship.”

He paused, dark hair falling in front of his eyes. “Ah promise nae to kill ye until ye reach the top,” he suggested. Under any other circumstances, the earnestness in his voice would have been adorable.

As it was she sighed, more exasperated than anything. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.”

Another pause, while Marianne returned her struggle to climb the cliff, now with the confirmed knowledge that she was going to have to duel this man when she got to the top and her arms were going to be unbearably sore. She would win, she had gone through too much for Dawn to lose now, but how much was it going to take?

From above her, he spoke again. “Can Ah give ye my word as a Scotsman?”

She snorted, breathless. “No good. I’ve known too many Scotsmen.”

“Is there anything I can say for ye to trust me?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

When he spoke again, his voice had lowered. Deep and gravely, it startled her enough to look back up at him, meeting his eyes. “Ah swear on the soul on my father, ye will reach the top alive.”

Marianne stared up at him. He stared back down, his gaze unwavering. She thought of her own parents, and what it would take for her to swear by them. She thought of her sister, the only family she had left, the driving force in her life.

“Throw me the rope.”

It didn’t take long from there. Years of piracy meant Marianne was much more adept at rope climbing than she might have been at rock climbing and she took the final feet with relative ease, even as her arms screamed at her. Scrabbling to the top, she managed to get her footing and took a second to look over the first of the three men who currently held her sister, Dawn. 

(The kidnapping had actually been fortuitous; she would take any of them gladly over the man who had her sister before. Prince Roland might have been a self-important twit, but he could be conniving when it suited him and keeping his engagement to Dawn suited him very much. Marianne would have had a much harder time rescuing her if she had to storm the castle to do so.)

He was the tallest of the three men, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He moved with uncommon grace, she thought, and her eyes fellow to long-fingered elegant hands, and the gold hilt of a saber at his side. A fencer, and a good one, too. 

She reached for her sword but he waved a hand at her. “Wait- wait until yer ready.”

She cocked her head, surprised. “Thank you,” she said slowly, and took a seat on one of the boulders that littered the area. Taking off one of her calf-high leather boots she dumped an alarming number of small stones from the bottom and tugged it back on.

Halfway through her second boot she realized the Scotsman was still looking at her. She pulled her boot on and met his curious gaze. His features were sharp, and his eyes a bright, clear blue. 

“Ye daen’t have siblings, do ye?”

She started, panic making her gut clench. He couldn’t possibly have guessed; she and Dawn looked nothing alike, and she was certain she still passed as a - albeit short - man.

Oblivious to her discomfort, he went on. “Brothers, Ah mean. Two?” Met with Marianne’s blank stare, he shook his head, his breath leaving him in a sound that was almost a laugh. “Nae, of course not.”

Now completely at sea, she said, “Do you begin all conversations this way?”

“Three men - triplets - were hired to kill my father. Ah mean to track down who they worked for.”

She nodded, solem. “No brothers,” she said truthfully. 

He nodded in turn, having already worked that out. His gaunt features pulled into something like a smile - the kind of smile she recognized from people who rarely made the action, like herself. “My father was a great sword-maker. He was given commission by an unknown man for this sword.” He drew his saber, carefully passing it her. “It was over a year before it was done.”

She handled it with care, looking over the intricate designs on its hilt, the perfect balance and weight. She looked back at the man. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

The smile grew and then faded, like an ember. He sheathed the weapon again. “Three men came to retrieve it for their lord, but at one tenth the price he was promised. My father refused. Without a word, they ran him through.” He sighed, closing his eyes a moment. “Ah love my father, so naturally Ah challenged his murders to a duel.” He laughed, and sat beside Marianne on the rock. She felt she should be unnerved to have him this close to her - her disguise was only so good - but he was a natural storyteller, and she was enraptured. He met her eyes, and she didn’t need to be told how the story ended.

Instead she asked. “How old were you?”

“Eleven.” He almost laughed again, clearly amused by the surprise on her face. “Once Ah was strong enough, Ah dedicated my life to the study of fencing. So the next time, I will not fail. Ah will look at the man and say, ‘my name is Bog King. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

She watched him as he stared at his hands in contemplation for a moment. “You’ve done nothing but study swordplay?”

He - Bog - looked at her again. “Well, Ah cannae really say study recently.” He stretched a little. “Y’see, I cannae find him, an’ Ah’m startin to lose confidence. Ah only took this job because there is nae a lot of money in revenge.”

Marianne sighed, fighting the urge to run her fingers through her hair. He was a fascinating man, and in better circumstances she would have loved to have him on her side, but as it stood, she didn’t have time to be recruiting people - not while Dawn got further away by the second. She stood, dusting off her breeches. “Well, I certainly hope you find him someday.”

He straightened a little. “You’re ready now?”

“Whether I am or not - you’ve been more than fair.”

“Well.” Bog stood, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders before drawing his sword, flipping to his left hand at the last minute. Marianne had noticed when he drew and handled it before - _right-handed_ , she noted to herself. “Ye seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you.”

She had to smile, drawing her sword into her left hand in turn. “You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.”

He closed his eyes a second and shook his head, almost fondly. Then he took a breath, and adjusted his stance. “Begin.”

It began slow, as they both tested the waters, circling each other slowly as they went. He was quick, clearly well-learned in the art, and hadn’t learned how to fight on a pirate ship (and thus with sea legs). But Marianne was small, observant, and knew to stick to defense until she could wear him down enough from chasing her about the rocky, uneven terrain.

“Impressive,” he said, his voice warm and cordial, even as she backed him toward the cliff edge again. “Ye’re wonderful.”

“Thank you,” she said, almost wanting to grin. “I’ve worked hard to become so.”

“Ye know, ye might be better than I am.” 

I sincerely doubt it, Marianne thought. “Then why are you smiling?” She teased.

He grinned back at her. “Because Ah know somethin ye don’t.”

“And what is that?”

“I am not left-handed.”

While Marianne had known that from the start, it was still surprising just how _much_ better Bog was with his dominant hand. She was quickly pushed back to her defense tactic, stumbling backwards up rocky steps towards an even higher overhang. If things didn’t change quick she was going to be in trouble.

“You are amazing,” she said, part-stalling and part-sincere. She had never had a duel like this in all her training. This was the kind of fight fencers dreamed of, the kind ladies would never have the chance to be a part of.

His smirk was prideful. “Ah ought to be, after twenty years.”

She was pushed against the overhang, their swords between them, his face very close her own. His eyes could put the sea to shame. “There’s something I ought to tell you.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m not left-handed either.” Marianne shoved him back with all her weight, flipping her sword back into her right hand, before engaging with him again. 

On an even playing field with him again, their duel grew fierce, almost wild. Marianne felt as if her earlier exhaustion had melted away completely - never had she felt so exhilarated, and by the way Bog was looking at her, he felt the same way. 

When her sword went flying from the momentum of a blow and she caught it one handed, he stared at her, eyes wide with wonder. “Who are ye?” He asked.

She smiled. “No one of consequence.”

“I must know.”

Now she laughed. “Get used to disappointment.”

Bog blinked, before shaking his head with that soft laugh. “Okay.”

Exhilaration and enjoyment only lent them both so much, though, and Marianne could tell Bog was tiring. His movements were growing less coordinated, he stumbled as she pursued him over the rocks, and soon enough she had him cornered well enough that she could knock the saber out of his hand. 

They stared at each other for a moment, panting softly. Then Bog dropped to his knees. “Kill me quickly.”

Marianne looked at him, startled. Perhaps that had been the plan to begin with but she couldn’t bear to kill the man now; it would resemble destroying a priceless piece of art. She circled him a moment, trying to decide what she could do with him. Coming to face him again, she realized he was watching her oddly again, akin to how he had when they first met, only even keener.

It occurred to her why and her heart dropped as her hand went to her face. Yep, the mustache she wore - fashioned from horse hair and spirit gum - had fallen off somewhere in that duel, and he was only just now able to study her face properly without it. 

“Ye-” he began, looking utterly shell-shocked. “Yer a-”

Before he could say the word, Marianne clocked him with the hilt of her sword and he went down with a thump and a small cloud of dust.

She felt bad for that, a little. But hopefully she’d hit him hard enough that he’d forget that detail when he came to. Dawn getting stolen by a pirate might arose suspicion when Roland heard of it, but if it got out that it was a woman he would know. He would know she was alive and the last thing Marianne wanted was to have that man’s attention ever again. 

She sighed, looking at Bog King’s prone form. It really would have been nice to have a second pair of hands - especially hands that could handle a sword that well - but there truly wasn’t time. 

She smiled sadly at him. “Please know I hold you in the highest respect.”


End file.
